


Your Skin Is My Memory's Keeper

by MissingTriforce



Series: Patriotism & Prejudice [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (2005), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Magic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rimming, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: Bucky and Steve take an afternoon to remember.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Patriotism & Prejudice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693642
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Your Skin Is My Memory's Keeper

Bucky is so caught up in taking care of Darcy and the others new to modern life that it’s easy to forget his own problems. He focuses on the others so he won’t have to question the three lives in his head, the three long movies of memory that film his brain with confusion and color.

Then, Steve—that lovely, super jerk—will take him aside and kiss him hard and a bubble of captured memory inside Bucky will burst with new light. Like Steve’s laugh, pre-serum—before the war, Steve’s laugh had a bitter, hollow edge that rattled out of his too-thin chest. Back in the present, Steve will stop kissing Bucky because Bucky’s so caught up in the lost sound of a tinier Steve’s laughter that he forgets to kiss back.

And so, they take an afternoon.

Bucky remembers multiple centuries’ worth of suggested preparation. He’s all showered and cleaned up and snoozing naked on the bed when he wakes up to pressure against his lips. He takes a deep breath and is greeted by the scent of Steve’s Old Spice.

Without opening his eyes, he drags his hand across the soft sheets, savoring their feel until he touches skin. His fingers ruffle through Steve’s arm hair and the super-solider giggles.

“Does being a super solider mean you’re super ticklish?” Bucky asks, smirking.

“Like I would tell a punk like you top-secret information like that,” Steve says, kissing Bucky once and then giggling again.

“You know, a room full of Neo-Nazis once applauded my information extraction techniques,” Bucky says. He does actually remember this—it had been so bizarre that it left a deep impression.

“That must’ve been a sight,” Steve says. He plants a wet kiss on Bucky’s neck, and goosebumps light up behind Bucky’s ear.

“Hey!” Bucky says, finally opening his eyes. Steve’s face is all happy smirk, like a smug sunrise with a floofy blonde top. Bucky’s heart goes a little wibbly. He tries to hold accusation in The Gaze, but he can’t.

“You ready?” Steve asks, smirk growing into shit-eating grin. “Last time I did this was 1945, but I think I still got it.”

“I trust you, punk.”

With one last peck on the cheek, Steve heads downward. Bucky realizes that the air conditioning’s on, as Steve’s bulk no longer blocks the cool breaths of air.

Bucky has no time to worry about becoming cold, though, because at that precise moment, in fearless fashion, Steve props Bucky’s legs on his shoulders and proceeds to eat him out.

Bucky’s entire body shudders. “о мой Бог,” Bucky murmurs. Steve’s tongue tingles, like some sort of twinning vine of warmth. It’s a small, wet intrusion that tickles and licks flame. Bucky stretches his back, clenches his toes, and grasps fistfuls of sheets.

Steve’s voice floats over him. “Relax. It’s okay.”

Okay, somehow, Bucky’s tense. He thinks about melting. He tries not to think about the coiling, anxious build of pleasure. His stomach muscles flutter and tense—and the flashes start. He is in a basement, surrounded by scientists. He hears the drip of water, he remembers being _angry_ at the water, at its sound, at how its wetness crept off his skin, leaving clamminess in its wake. How it got into everything—in his nose and ears and in the creaking metal of his arm.

“Hey,” Steve says, nuzzling against Bucky’s inner thigh. “It’s me.”

The vision-memory shatters. Bucky is a rigid mess of tension—his muscles are ready to spring into action and not into love-making. There’s sweat on his brow. “Steve,” Bucky makes himself breathe and nod.

“All right, we’re going to start with this,” Steve’s voice says in gentle, warm rhythm.

Bucky’s mouth makes a breathy whimper as Steve licks up the shaft of his cock. With steady fingers, he thumbs at the slit and glans. “Do you remember the Howling Commandos?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember when we routed those Hydra agents out of the old trenches? They were digging for some occult thing—God only knows what. But it was spring. The flowers were blooming. You caught me sketching them more than once.”

As Steve fondles, Bucky does remember: Steve’s sheepish, guilty smile; the mud slapping against their boots; the sunlit green of the trees.

“I couldn’t figure out where you— _ha_ —kept getting those pencils and paper,” Bucky says through the pleasure.

“Peggy passed them to me. Regular as rations.”

“Hmmmmm,” is all Bucky can say because warmth as turned to heat, and it’s hard to think of anything else except where Steve’s hand is touching him. “You tamed that butterfly.”

“I didn’t _tame_ a _butterfly_. You don’t know it was the same butterfly. There were just a lot of butterflies.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky teases. “It was just a slew of big ones landing on your shoulder and whispering secrets.”

“There was milkweed everywhere!” Steve says. “You took seeds, even.”

Bucky cracks an eye open. “How did you know that?”

“It was in—it was in your effects.”

Bucky shuts his eyes again, but Steve going through his effects is a memory that Bucky’s glad he doesn’t have.

Steve won’t let the mood stay, though—with five strong strokes, Bucky is burning, flushed, curling, and releasing. Semen sprays onto his stomach, and Steve doesn’t bother cleaning up. Nope. That bastard pops a mint and lubes up a finger.

“You’re a jerk,” Bucky says, since who looks that satisfied about a handjob? And then _winks_.

“Another time I like to think about is that one time against the Blood Baron.”

Bucky laughs and grins wide. “Oh, you mean the vampire that bit you and made you faint like a Victorian maiden? I love that story too.”

“Shut up,” Steve says.

“It’s truuuuuueeeeeeee,” Bucky crows, sitting up. “You totally fainted and had teeth marks and everything.”

Steve glares at him. “Also fangs.”

“Pffftt, those were puny.”

“They were deadly.”

“Nope.”

“I also remember you being a little put out until the army found the cure. Because I couldn’t do this.” Lube in place, Steve rings his knuckle around Bucky’s entrance and pushes in. His next move is a ‘come thither’ motion, which Bucky gasps and clutches at Steve.

“Oh my God.” He wraps as much of Steve as he can in his arms.

“Do you want me to stop?” Steve chuckles—he _chuckles_.

“I will kill you if you stop,” Bucky says in a rush, squeezing his eyes shut tight. That’s right—he liked penetration. All of him liked it a lot. He clutches Steve tight and mushes his face into Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s neck, Steve’s collarbones. As Steve pushes and touches and rings, Bucky’s shoulders mechanically droop and relax. As Steve’s scent fills his nose, thoughts of escaping Brooklyn’s summer heat fill his heart. Rides on ice trucks, the delivery job for the docks, the rare days they could make it to the shore.

He’s panting without knowing when he started panting. Steve’s arm is holding him in place and rocking him slowly. One finger has become two, and Bucky is grateful as all fuck that there is. He can almost count the waves of happy endorphins arcing and breaking in his system. Only two fingers, and this is better than any fight.

“I got you,” Steve says. “I’ve got you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s thighs tremble—his legs are wrapped around Steve’s waist. He feels flickers of flame and memory beneath his eyelids—his first taste of whiskey, first taste of scotch, first taste of vodka. Steve used to hate spirits—once was an errand boy for the temperance folks, handing out buttons and pamphlets. After his mom died, Steve dropped the gig and next day Steve’s breath reeked of the stuff. They realized—that late winter night conversation on the couch cushions—they realized there were different ways to die, more than sickness or getting shot. Bucky still wanted to kiss him. Wanted to kiss the peppermint taste out of his mouth. Wanted to steal the burn in his belly and red in his ears. Wanted to lift his slight body out of its troubles and take him home forever, take him to a better place, albeit kicking and screaming, most like.

Steve is real now; Steve is here now. He doesn’t need lifting—Bucky couldn’t carry him without the metal arm. Bucky can whimper into Steve’s skin and bite and suck at the joining of the man’s neck and shoulder.

Steve’s free hand cradles Bucky’s head. “My good boy,” Steve says. “My faithful fella. My dear heart.”

Bucky is _not_ crying, but his eyes tear up. Steve’s fingers are as deep as they can go, and he’s scissoring Bucky wider. Through the burn and pulse, Bucky remembers wild jealously, wild childhood jealously of fairy tale kings who made their own laws and could stare down enemies while twinning fingers with their consort who looked an awful lot like Steve Rogers. He remembers learning how to throw a punch from the WWI vet down the street, the one who looked normal but screamed at night. The sweat that formed in Bucky’s hands when Bucky kept them curled too long.

And the club—the Princely Gentlemen—their first gay club, hidden on the street corner between the antiques and the bookstore. Steve leading him there and Bucky realizing _oh_ —Steve had been jealous too, Steve had hated all those dates Bucky danced with, Steve wanted to be here, among the sulfur cigarettes of broad-shouldered women with make-up skills to kill a man dead. Among the ladies all dolled up for other ladies and the men out of uniform so they could kiss their fellas in the dark without worry. The people in dark purple suits and androgynous haircuts with no clear gender at all. Everyone listening to jazz and dancing amongst the smoke.

The blood had flushed his skin so red that Steve asked if he was having an attack. “No, sir,” Bucky had answered, before grabbing Steve’s face and kissing it so terribly and sloppily you’d think he’d never kissed before.

“Still good?” Steve asks—Steve in the present; the Steve in their bed. Bucky nods and stops sucking and admires the wide purple mark he leaves behind.

“I remember the Princely Gentlemen,” Bucky explains. “I’m sorry I was such a bad kisser.”

“Yeah, punk, that was my first kiss too. Nearly called off the whole experience.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says with no force at all as Steve, in the true art of teasing, does something devastating inside him that sends thrills of pleasure up his spine. Steve rocks him harder and Bucky shudders and lets spill from his mouth, “I want you in me.”

“You sure? That wasn’t the plan.” How is Steve so calm about this? How is he smugly smiling? How does he make his eyes glimmer such dark blue-green? Oh right—because he’s not the one being slowly finger-fucked out of his remaining mind.

“Fuck the plan and me.”

Steve laughs, but tilts them downward so Bucky’s back is sweaty against the cool sheets. Steve untangles himself and Bucky breathes deep as the fingers leave and something else presses against Bucky’s skin. Steve’s cock is bigger than it used to be, but Bucky’s body is greedy for it all the same. With more lube and slickness, with a push and grunt and more push, Steve’s in and Bucky’s breath feels complete for the first time in a long while.

“Jesus,” Steve says. “I—I forgot what this felt like.” Now, he’s shaking—he’s planted his hands on either side of Bucky’s head and shaking like an oak tree in a strong wind. “I feel your heart beat.”

“Is it going crazy?” Bucky gives a dazed smile and places a metal hand on Steve’s chest. “Yours is.” Goosebumps bloom up on Steve’s chest where the cold metal of Bucky’s fingers touch. Bucky wants to count the beats, but then Steve _moves_.

A cry so pathetic and wolfish escapes Bucky’s throat before he has time to process. His eyes snaps shut, his hands fly backward to grip pillows, and his body arches. And then Steve does it again. And _again_.

“You’re okay,” Steve says. “You’re here, with me. You’re safe,” Steve takes up a litany. Repeats it over and over as he thrusts and retracts and blurs the lines between time and space.

Bucky’s cries blend and meld: “Steve, Лучик, inima mea îţi aparţine, tu ești sufletul meu pereche, Steve, Steve, take it, je t’adore.”

Pleasure, pure and hot, grips and seizes Bucky’s insides. Like Steve is gripping his heart; Steve is pumping his lungs; Steve is spreading steam through his stomach, his chest, his arms, his head. Bucky is beyond aroused—he is boiling. His cock strains and leaks against his overfull belly.

Suddenly, the rhythm breaks down—Steve comes inside in an unexpected rush. Eyes snapping open, Bucky gasps and grabs, pressing the Steve’s heaviness against his heaving body. Steve’s face is mussed into his neck. Steve, body as uncoordinated and floppy as a newborn kitten, weakly tries to continue thrusting, despite Bucky knowing how much it must hurt. “Shhh, shhh,” he says into Steve’s hair. “We’re good. Enjoy it.” He drags his fingers through Steve’s short hair over and over again. Calming.

His dick is not calm, still straining. He’s still sweaty and hot and pleasure-glazed. Gotta fix this. He reaches down between them, but Steve, the bastard, is already there. With two strokes, Bucky’s biting his lips and shaking out another orgasm to Steve’s one.

He must pass out for moment because next thing he knows Steve is shifting away. Bucky immediately tightens his grip—both the hold of his arms and his legs around Steve’s waist. “Where are you going?”

“I was going to get a towel to clean up.” Steve’s fucking smirk is back—his little ‘I got Bucky right where I want him’ smile.

“I’ve been dirtier,” Bucky says. Ha—let Steve do horrible things with that sentence. “Stay.”

“Something I should know about?” Steve says, deciding to comply anyway, but settling his head against Bucky’s chest.

“Don’t want to ruin the mood,” Bucky says—and he doesn’t. He’d been thinking of Hydra, how they thought getting melted out of cryo counted as a shower.

They’re silent, and Bucky basks and breathes in the smell of Steve, musk, and sex. Steve’s weight on top of him is significant—makes him breathe harder—but good. It feels good. It feels safe. It feels like home.

Steve asks, quiet, “What were you saying? I understood the French and English, but what were…?”

Bucky has to forcibly rewind. “Russian…and Romanian.”

“What were you thinking of?”

“Of you. My mind,” Bucky buries his face into Steve’s hair, “I was thinking in the present.”

“Good,” Steve says, relief evident in the sound of his voice. “Good.”

Then, they’re silent and glowing again. Bucky dozes and only half-shifts when Steve escapes this time. A moment later, a rough wetness palms his belly, but the important part is the moment after, when Steve comes back to bed and Bucky rolls onto his side so Steve can spoon up against him and nuzzle into his shoulder.

When they’re together and warm and safe, Bucky finally lets the past go.


End file.
